


Murderous Meet-Cute

by storm_of_sharp_things



Series: Assassins at Play [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ALL THE CRACK, Crack, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:52:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/pseuds/storm_of_sharp_things
Summary: Hawkeye, SHIELD master assassin, met Macha, Circle master assassin, on a rooftop on a wet spring evening in Thailand. She stole his kill and a kiss.Prequel to "Trust Issues" but stands alone just fine





	1. Murderous Meet-Cute

“Barton!” Fury snapped into the comm. “Report, dammit!”

“Little…busy…sir…” Barton panted.

Fury heard running footsteps, sliding roof tiles, the snap of Barton's bow, a barely breathed obscenity. A woman’s distant laughter, delighted and mocking.

“That was closer!” the unknown woman shouted.

Fury blinked. “Barton, are you _missing_ a target that's on foot?”

Barton's bow snapped once, twice, thrice in a breath. “No sir, she's a fucking eel with eyes in the back of her head!” He cursed and shot again.

“Status of your mission, Barton,” Fury gritted.

Barton panted, running again. There was a gap of silence and then the sound of scrabbling. Fury assumed his agent had leapt from one roof to another.

“Target’s…dead, sir. _She_ killed him.” Then silence, and Barton controlling his breathing. “She's disappeared,” he whispered. “Give me a moment.”

Fury waited several moments, pacing, hearing the sound of rain on the roofs, then Barton’s comm went dead.

 

<——€€€

 

Clint pressed himself back against the sloping tiled roof, trying to look in every possible direction while staying tucked in a dark angle himself.

Six arrows, goddammit. _Six_. And not a single one touched her. He should be checking himself for symptoms of drugs. Was his vision off? His reaction time? Anything other than accepting she was that good.

This part of town was a mess of old peaked and tiled roofs, buildings leaning close and creating a patchwork of overhangs and balconies. With the dusk and the rain and the loose tiles underfoot, this would've been the best game ever with a partner he trusted. With an unknown assassin of her skill level, it was a nightmare.

He heard a scuff from a roof above him, but there was no one in sight. He knew the sound was deliberate, and he scowled, glaring up into the rain with a squint.

“You're not my target, Hawkeye.” Her quiet but amused voice was almost directly overhead, but he wasn't about to leave cover, and he certainly didn't respond, of course. He was hardly going to give up any advantage he might still have.

She sighed exaggeratedly. “You're not going to just let it go, are you?” Her voice came from an entirely different balcony off to the side.

He kept the bow ready, breathing softly and evenly, following her faint movements with his ears, his eyes following after. It didn't help that it had to be a trap; there was no way she was careless enough to make noise he could hear over the rain.

There was another silence, and then his earpiece was snatched away. He was turning, bow swinging around, and she stepped under it to press him back against the steep slope of the roof with her body. He heard the earpiece crunch under her foot, but he was distracted by her mouth. Her mouth that was touching his, kissing him, licking against his lips as her fingers twisted in his hair.

When she leaned back, he stared at her for a shocked second, then knocked her off the edge of the roof and took a shot at her falling body. She was twisting midair, already throwing a rope and hook out, and the arrow sliced past her ribs rather than burying itself in her body. Then the hook caught on the edge of a roof and the short arc of the rope slammed her through a window and out of sight.

Clint stared at the broken window, hearing the echoes of her laugh, and then down at his crushed earpiece. With a sigh, he pulled his cell phone out of a pocket and took several deep breaths before dialing.

“Tell the boss I need immediate extraction.”

 

<——€€€

 

“Seven fucking arrows!” Clint was shouting as Bruce strolled by the outdoor range on an afternoon walk. He stopped and watched warily; the archer wasn't exactly known for explosive temper tantrums.

Steve was leaning against a fence, arms crossed and a hand covering his mouth as he watched Clint shoot dozens of arrows down range at tiny targets that darted quickly in random directions. Bruce squinted at the distance but didn't see Clint miss anything.

“Mmm,” Steve said behind his hand.

“Seven fucking arrows at near point blank range and the last one barely touched her!”

“Mmm,” Steve said, tone indicating amazement.

“No one’s that good!”

“Mmm,” Steve said in grave agreement.

“And she fucking _kissed_ me!”

“Mmmmm,” Steve said, tone indicating disbelief at the sheer gall of the gesture.

Bruce bit his lips, taking in Steve’s lightly watering eyes. “Umm,” he said.

Clint turned with a glare. “What?” he snapped.

“I, umm, well, I admit to curiosity, if it's something you can talk about…”

Clint narrowed his eyes at Bruce. “I went on a mission.”

“Yeah…” Bruce nodded encouragingly. “I got that part.” He deliberately didn't glance at Steve, whose shoulders were shaking slightly.

“There was another assassin there, who got to the target ahead of me.”

Bruce frowned. “That seems unusual.”

Steve nodded, making an ‘exactly’ gesture with one shoulder.

“That's not the problem!” Clint shouted.

Steve shook his head, making the ‘exactly’ gesture with one shoulder.

Bruce pressed his lips together firmly and gestured to Clint to continue. Steve’s eyes danced at Bruce in gleeful sympathy over the hand covering his mouth.

“I warned her off, she went ahead anyway, and I shot at her. Just to wound, initially. And she _dodged_.”

Bruce frowned. He knew the differences between reputation, rumors, and reality, but he'd never known or heard of Hawkeye seriously missing a shot. And the man routinely put multiple arrows in the air at the same time, not to mention the uncanny valley way he'd turn to talk to you or look at something else and still make the shot he'd started.

“I chased her down across the rooftops while she laughed at me. Took six shots at her _that all missed_. And then she ambushed me.”

Bruce looked the archer up and down carefully. “You don't look injured?”

“She kissed me!” he shouted.

“That…doesn't seem like a normal ambush…” Bruce  bit the inside of his cheek as Steve shook his head and closed his eyes tightly, shoulders shaking.

“So I pushed her off the roof and took another shot as she was falling.”

“That seems like…an inappropriate…umm, a bit of an overreaction…umm…so you were really angry, then?”

Clint glared while Steve spun away to keenly survey the targets down range. “She was twisting midair to throw a grappling hook and that arrow just grazed her. I know it drew blood. But she was grinning like an idiot and laughing when she went through the window.”

“…huh.”

“What?” Clint asked sharply. “What is it you think you know?”

“Umm,” Bruce said. “So you don't know who she was?”

“Bruce…” Clint's voice rose warningly.

“Clint, I don't _know_ anything other than what you've just told me.”

“But you…”

“Hey, Barton!” Tony's shout cut across the range. He was jogging towards them, waving a package. “Special delivery!”

“Since when are you a courier?” Bruce asked.

Tony shrugged and handed Clint the long narrow box. “Fury handed it to me and said he thought I'd enjoy delivering it.”

They all turned to regard the box Clint was holding warily. After a pause, he set it on a nearby table and worked it open. Inside was a long, narrow, beautifully-made wooden case with a circular _enso_ symbol and some elegant _kanji_ burnt into the top.

“What do the moon-runes say?” Tony asked with interest.

Bruce smacked him on the back of the head. “I don't know whether you're racist or just an asshole, Tony.”

“Asshole,” Clint and Steve said in unison.

“Not to mention a misogynist,” Natasha said from behind Tony, who jumped with a curse.

“We're on the same side, you crazy spy assassin female creature! You don't get to practice on me.”

She stepped around him and raised an eyebrow at the box, then at Clint. “What’d you do to piss off the Circle?”

His eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Haven't the faintest idea.”

Bruce sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That assassin who dodged seven of your shots…”

“What?” Natasha demanded with delight. “Spill.”

Clint threw his hands up in the air. “I went on a mission, there was a woman who got there ahead of me and stole my kill, I chased her across rooftops in the rain, she ambushed me and kissed me, I pushed her off a roof, she dodged seven fucking arrows and got away.”

“Oh,” Natasha said. “Then that wasn't the Circle.”

“Why not?” Steve asked. “Aren't they assassins?”

Clint nodded. “Yeah, but they're all male. Very traditional bunch. They make Stark look like a gender equality activist.”

“Hey!” Tony squawked.

“Umm…” Bruce said.

“Wait,” Natasha broke in, turning back to Clint. “You missed seven shots at her?”

“The last one drew blood!”

“Were you drugged or something?”

“No! I checked!”

She frowned. “I'm the only one you've ever missed before.”

“ _I know_!”

“What?” Tony said. “Maybe you just can't hit women.”

Clint reached for his bow and Steve put a hand on it to stop him.

“Umm,” Bruce said.

“Maybe you should just open the box,” Steve suggested. They all turned to look at the box again.

“Right,” Clint said, heaving a sigh, and opened the lid. Inside, nestled in sumptuous green silk, were seven of his arrows. One had white rice paper folded neatly around the arrowhead. Natasha picked it up and pulled the paper away. The tip looked wet and there was blood along one edge.

“It's been lacquered,” she said, touching the tip.  “Like a trophy.”

“Oh hell,” Bruce said. “It _is_ her.”

“Clint, put the bow _down_ ,” Steve ordered.

 

<——€€€

 

“I don't normally drink,” Bruce said, perching uncomfortably on a barstool and not taking the glass Tony was offering him.

“Oh good, more for me.” Tony knocked back the bourbon and pushed himself up to sit on the bar counter, swinging his legs.

Natasha was sitting cross-legged in an overstuffed armchair, looking regal and amused, while Clint paced around the furniture impatiently.

Steve dropped into a sprawl on the sofa with a sigh and waved a hand at Bruce. “If you wouldn't mind?”

“Um,” Bruce started. Clint glared. “Right. So a few years ago, maybe longer, I was spending some time in India and China, looking for some, um, meditation teachings, trading for it with medical aid. I ended up in a temple where I met a couple of Circle assassins who needed a doctor. I went back with them to Tibet and stayed for awhile. They do a great deal of meditation and I learned a lot there. And it was really peaceful and calm.”

Tony scoffed. “Peaceful and calm. The headquarters of some of the most feared assassins in the world.”

Bruce frowned at him. “Their _home_ , Tony.”

“This is not getting us to the point,” Clint snapped.

“Right. Um. So there is one female assassin in the Circle now. She's British by birth, but raised by one of the elder members of the Circle. And she's really really good at it, scary good, and she had to overcome a lot of opposition to become a member of the Circle. And if your opponent had black hair and green eyes the color of the silk lining that box, then it was probably her, because she also has a wicked sense of humor.”

Tony was staring at him. “Jesus, did you sleep with her or something?”

Bruce blushed to the tips of his ears. “No! I…I don't do that sort of thing.”

Natasha grinned at him. “So we can assume that she made the offer.”

“None of that matters!” he said desperately. “She's set her sights on Clint!”

“What?” Clint said.

Bruce held the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. “She was flirting, you idiot.”

“That part was obvious,” Steve said. “But what do the arrows mean?”

“Wait, what?” Clint said. “What flirting?”

Natasha sighed while Tony laughed so hard he fell off bar. “Dearest,” she said. “She was inviting you to play on the rooftops. How did you miss this?”

“I…”

Tony waved a hand weakly from the floor behind the bar. “And then you pushed her off a roof after she kissed you! Way to go, Romeo!”

Steve was holding his mouth again. “Mmm. Okay, so let's say you were focused on the mission. Admirably if a little single-mindedly. What is she trying to tell you with the arrows?”

“It's more flirting,” Bruce said. “And a smug in-your-face type of challenge. Like a ‘I am returning to you what you uselessly tossed at me, do you think you can do better next time’ type of thing. Um. I should probably have worded that differently.”

“Clint, put the bow _down_ ,” Steve ordered.

 

<——€€€

 

Bruce kept a nightlight on in his bedroom; surprise was never a good thing in his life. In this case, it wasn't even necessary. He sighed before he opened his eyes.

“Clint. Sneaking up on me in the middle of the night is not one of your brighter ideas. I'm not a good person to startle.”

“You're not startled.”

“No, because I've been expecting you to stop by. I just figured that if you hadn't come to see me anytime over the last couple of days, it could probably wait until morning. Apparently I was wrong, but there we are.”

“…I couldn't sleep.”

Bruce stared at the ceiling. “Don't tell me. Fury wouldn't let you take off.”

“She's out there laughing at me.”

Bruce covered his face with his hands. “I think you might have taken this more seriously than it should be taken.” He sat up and stared hard at Clint, who had the grace to shuffle a little in an embarrassed fashion.

“I don't expect you to understand…” Clint started.

“Of course I understand. I'm just not twelve and having to respond to any dare I'm taunted with.”

Clint scowled at him. “Lets just call it an assassin thing and move on.”

“Moving on? Is that what you're doing?”

Clint dropped down to sit on the edge of Bruce's bed and hung his head. “I haven't been able to forget how she kissed me. And…it's…been some time since…well, anyone.”

Bruce flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling again. “Did I miss some milepost where we crossed into _that_ level of friendship?”

“C’mon Bruce, you know her! You can at least tell me about her!”

“She's dangerous and evil and likes to play games with her prey.”

Clint sat up straight and then slowly turned to look at Bruce. “…are you doing this on purpose?”

“You know, in a normal human being, none of those things would elicit that reaction.” Bruce threw an arm over his face. “Go away, Clint.”

After the archer had skulked off, he sighed and pulled a cell phone out of a drawer and started texting.

 

You know, we're trying to save

the planet here. You're throwing a

perfectly good Avenger into a

tailspin for your own sick fun.

 

Harsh judgement from someone who

has benefited personally at my hands.

 

Stop saying it like that!

You make it sound sexual!

 

Dear heart, the noises you made

during those rubdowns were what

made it sound sexual.

 

They were just massages!

 

(snicker)

 

Okay. Stop. Seriously.  I warned

him about your sense of humor.

 

Did you? Are you

matchmaking now?

 

Oh my god. I am, aren't I?

I didn't mean it like that!

 

Hush, dear heart. You can't be

expected to understand an

assassin thing like that.

 

My god. That's almost exactly a

quote of something he said.

 

: )

 

You're bored, aren't you? Not enough

murder on your schedule for you?

 

Now that IS harsh. I know you

don't approve, but even you should

admit we're fairly damn selective

about our contracts.

 

You took one on Tony Stark

 

Nope. Is he still walking around

being annoying? Spoiler alert: yes

 

We did CONSIDER it though

To be fair, it was ALOT of money

 

Alright alright

But toying with Barton

isn't fair. He's a nice guy.

 

Heavens Dr Banner, what is it

you think I'm planning for him?

 

In one word?

 

Pick something besides ‘evil’

 

How do you insert one of those

moving icon thingies?

 

OMG Bruce, do you mean

a gif? A meme? I'm rolling

my eyes so hard I've got a

headache.

…

Yelling is all caps, right?

STAYING CURRENT ON POP

CULTURE IS NOT MY FIRST

PRIORITY!!!!!

 

You do know what LOL means,

right?

 

You do know I hate you, right?

 

Awww, but eye wuvs ooo

 

All right, that was too much.

Apologies and hugs and kisses,

dear heart.

 

Bruce.

 

(sigh)

Bruce. I apologize for going past

the boundaries of your admittedly

limited sense of humor.

 

Why haven't the other members

of the Circle had you killed yet?

 

Just enough doubt that they would

be successful. Just enough fear at

what my vengeance would entail.

 

And you wonder why I'm warning

my friend away from you

 

Too late for that. He's asking

about me, isn't he? (grinning)

 

: (

 

Look at you go with the

pop culture emoticons!

 

I'm afraid you’re going

to break him.

 

Bruce. We're talking about a

master assassin, an agent of

SHIELD, and the finest archer

in the world. May I remind you

that he was shooting to kill me?

 

See, this is where is all

breaks down for me. I

just don't understand…

 

LOL. Just consider it

an assassin thing : )

 

I'm going back to sleep

 

Well fine. Guess I'll just go

masturbate then…

 

I

You

What

 

Heh. Sweet dreams, dear friend

 

 

<——€€€

 


	2. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macha makes another move

 

Clint knew he’d been sulking. It was pretty obvious, even to himself, and he was generally better at hiding emotional stuff from himself than that.

He figured he'd gotten better control after trying to pump Bruce for information, though. That had not been a moment to be proud of. And Fury had all but grounded him, anyway. He wasn't going to get anywhere right now, and seeing how unbalanced he'd gotten on the subject of female Circle assassins, that was probably for the best.

But no one was watching him warily anymore over the past few days, and Natasha had stopped smirking at him (any more than normal anyway) so he was starting to feel a lot more relaxed.

He was even allowed to go off-base to have a drink or two. He didn't love bars, but they were a reliable source of alcohol, sports, and music. And friendly bodies, if he were interested in the type of companionship you could find there if you were fit, decent-looking, and not too particular. 

A couple of beers led to a stint on the dance floor with a couple of girls. He wouldn't say he was the best dancer, but he definitely had rhythm, and the girls seemed to appreciate it enough to pull him off the dance floor. There they started fussing over who had seen him first, and he was buzzed enough, and amused enough, to lean back against the wall, hook his thumbs in his jeans, and just watch them argue.

“Now that's just stupid,” a woman with a southern accent said next to him. “You're gonna get bored and wander off before they get around to makin’ a move.”

He turned with a smile to find a pretty face behind a pair of tinted aviator glasses, dark braided hair under a baseball cap, a big grin, and an offer of a cold, unopened bottle of beer.

“So you're taking advantage to make a move instead?” He winked as he accepted the bottle and manfully twisted off the cap.

“I'm grateful they lured you off the dance floor,” she said. “Not my natural environment.”

“Dah-yunce flo-ah,” he said experimentally, grinning at her.

“Shu-gah,” she drawled. “If it don't come natural, don't go and force it.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” He sipped the beer, grinned at her again.

She inclined her head to indicate an exit route just as the girls started slapping at each other. He winced and followed his southern savior around to the other side of the bar to a darker corner.

He couldn't help but notice the snug t-shirt and the even snugger jeans. They weren't painted on, but he couldn't imagine they were simple to slide into either. Unless they were stretchy. He was suddenly consumed with an urge to slide a hand into one of her back pockets to test the denim.

She glanced over her shoulder at him and he caught sight of a dimple as she smiled, and then she walked on with an exaggerated sway of her hips. He smiled and reached for her backside, since she was obviously aware of his interest and encouraging it. He hooked a finger in one of the back pockets and found that it gave a little bit as he pulled her gently backwards so she nestled back against his front. She was only an inch or so shorter than him and she fit beautifully. He wrapped his non-beer-holding arm around her waist and pressed his nose to the skin behind her ear. She smelled good, more of a woodsy scent than a flowery one, but barely there, not overwhelming.

“Why sugar, look at you gettin’ all forward,” she said with a chuckle as she settled back against him comfortably. She swayed a little in time to the music playing and tilted her head to offer him better access to her neck.

Okay, so it wasn't love, Clint admitted, but it was definitely a raging case of severely interested.

“I wouldn't dare go where I'm not welcome,” he murmured into her ear, pleased at the shiver that elicited.

She bit her bottom lip, pressed back against his hips invitingly. “Consider yourself welcome.”

Okay, Clint thought. Bluff called. He couldn't bring her back to base. And wandering off with a new friend would definitely raise Fury’s eyebrow.

But dammit, it had been…well, just say _some time_ since an offer like this had presented herself.

She sighed. “You're thinkin’ about this awful hard, honey. It's okay if you're not free to play right now.”

He set the beer bottle on a nearby table and turned her around, holding her hips to him and kissing her, trying to be gentle and not demanding. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, and she was the one who turned the kiss insistent, opening her mouth to him, teasing with her tongue, nipping at his lip when he moved away.

“I can't believe I'm going to cockblock myself,” he groaned.

She snorted indelicately. “Yeah, it's a real turn-off when guys are all responsible and respect whatever obligations they have in place. You got a cellphone, sugar?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and raised an eyebrow at her. She grinned, absolutely failed to reach for it and recited a phone number instead. He plugged it in with a text message and she pulled her own phone out of a front pocket and answered back with another text message that consisted only of a kiss emoji.

“Go be reliable. Let me know when you've got time off again, okay?” And she sauntered out of the bar, pausing at the threshold where she was outlined by the lights to give him a saucy grin over her shoulder and a shameless swing of her hips as she left.

 

<——€€€

 

I'm utterly ashamed that

I didn't ask your name

To be fair sugar

I didn't ask yours

It's Clint but feel

free to call me sugar

or honey or whatever

else comes to mind

LOL

 

Well you ARE awfully

sweet, Clint

Ok, now I'm wincing

 

And I'm grinning

I've got a weird name thanks

to my family so I go by Belle

 

And don't make the southern

belle joke or we'll have to

renegotiate our next meeting

 

Wouldn't have dreamed of it

 

LOL

liar

fast on your feet but a liar

Ok ok

I might've THOUGHT

it but I didn't SAY it

Fair point.

Ok you get a pass for that

THIS TIME

Belle

I like the sound of it

I'll tell you a secret

 

My friends came up with

the name because I move

quietly. So really, it stands

for Belle the Cat.

No! LOL!

That’s a worse joke

than the other one!

IKR?

But what can you do when

a nickname sticks?

Beat them up until

they promise to

never use it again?

I really really like the

way your brain works

 

 

<——€€€

 

 

A week later, Clint finally had her in his arms. Wait, scratch that, he thought with a grin. Clint was finally sitting in a dark booth in the bar, had her straddling his lap while his arms were around her and they were kissing hungrily. Yeah, that was a better description.

He’d texted her that he had the evening off and she'd suggested the bar. She'd met him at the door to the bar in her usual tinted glasses, tight black yoga pants that left very little to the imagination, and a short-sleeve grey v-necked t-shirt almost as skin-skimming as the pants. And a narrow-brimmed straw fedora with a dark band perched pertly atop her dark braid.

He blinked at the hat. “And here I thought you had good taste.”

“Sugar, you came here hopin’ to make out in a corner and the first thing you do is insult the lady’s hat?”

“I'm trying to think of a way to backpedal the conversation but I'm still stunned by the presence of a fedora in this relationship.”

“It's a trilby and it's funny that you think ‘relationship’ is a good word at this moment.”

He grinned at her, liking the confrontational stance, the hands on the hips, the way she was trying to scowl at him past a smile. “Did you just finish up a yoga class? Because otherwise, I'd think you'd be risking arrest for indecent exposure. Unless you really like being frisked? Not that you'd be able to hide _anything_ under that outfit.”

“Don't be infuriatin’, Clint. If you can't figure out this is a makin’ out in a corner outfit, then I might as well go home and toy with myself.”

“Well, since you've gone to all the trouble…”

She laughed and pulled him close to kiss him, making an appreciative noise against his mouth. “Get inside and find us a corner. I'll get us drinks.”

“Where the hell do you have money or ID stashed on you?” He gave her a thorough down and up look.

“Clint honey, I'm wearin’ _this_. What makes you think I'm gonna need money or ID?” And she sauntered into the bar with a predatory grin.

Holy fuck, he thought, he might be in over his head already. He claimed a booth and waited for her, watching the crowd with impatience.

She sauntered towards him with a smile and two unopened bottles, trailing disappointed men in her wake. Clint pressed his fingers against his mouth to smother the grin as the last of them visually followed her path, saw him waiting, and faltered.

She winked at him as she placed the bottles down. “Now don't you go feelin’ sorry for those boys, I never promised them nothin’. I never even made eye contact with those last three.”

“Of course you didn't, they didn't even know you _had_ eyes.” He opened both bottles, handing one to her.

She snorted. “Only reason I had a head was someplace for a mouth and hair to hold on to.”

He nearly spat his mouthful of beer across the table. “Evil wench. Why aren't you ruling the world?”

“Pfft. Too many borin’ bits.”

“Oh god. You, bored. You'd trigger the next apocalypse, wouldn't you?”

“Anything that let me keep my hands in.”

“Well, if you need to keep your hands busy…” he trailed off as she climbed into the booth to straddle his lap, forced by the edge of the table to lean right up against him. He reached past her to push the table away a few inches to give them room, then settled his hands on her hips.

She smiled down at him, hands on his shoulders, thumbs caressing against the sides of his throat.

He reached up to spread his hands across the backs of her shoulders, then slid them down her back, down past her hips along the outside of her thighs and back along her calves to lightly touch her ankles through the soft shoes. Then he carefully lifted his hands to touch the glasses she wore, pausing to let her object, then lifting them away and setting them on the table. He touched the hat with a faint smile and set that on the table as well.

She watched him warily, the smile fallen away, her hands still resting lightly on his shoulders, thumbs still tracing aimless circles against his throat.

He set his hands on her ribcage under her arms and ran his hands lightly down her ribs, down her thighs where they were spread across him, and back up to splay across her abdomen.

Then he lifted his hands to pull the hairband gently off the end of her braid, unbraiding her hair and running his hands through it, massaging at her scalp with insistent fingertips.

She blinked slowly, eyes staying half-lidded as he rubbed, working his way down to the back of her neck and stroking down both sides of her spine to bring his hands to rest at her hips again.

“No weapons at all,” he said softly.

“I told you that you weren't my target,” she said, the slow southern drawl fallen away into a more precise British pronunciation.

“I'm sorry I pushed you off the roof.”

A very small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “You were fairly angry at me.”

“No one's that good.”

“Six arrows say differently. The seventh…that one should've been far worse. I was expecting far worse when I saw you draw the bow.”

“I was regretting it even as I let it fly,” he admitted. “Threw off my aim.” He watched her face, marveled at the lapful of _unarmed_ assassin he held. “Why are you here? And without weapons?”

A tiny dimple appeared beside her mouth. “Where would I hide them in this outfit?”

“Implying that you're here just to make out with me.”

“It's sad that you're finding that so hard to believe, Clint Barton.”

“Things are rarely that simple in our world.”

She dropped her gaze to his mouth. “While that's true, ‘rarely’ doesn't mean ‘never.’”

“I have never known an assassin to willingly walk about unarmed.”

Her eyes crinkled as she grinned. “I'm hardly helpless. You're armed and close enough. And those two guys at the end of the bar are armed, and so is the drunk idiot in the hat, though I wouldn't trust him to keep up the maintenance on his pistol. The three women at the table over there are off-duty cops and well-armed with their personal guns. The bouncer has weapons, the bartender has a couple rifles under the counter, there's any amount of glass you could ever desire for breaking, and definitely no shortage of items to throw. And there are a dozen vehicles in the parking lot with weapons stashed.” She shrugged. “And you did miss a couple small blades in the soles of my shoes, but they wouldn't be the quickest to produce. No garroting wire hidden in the hair though, that was an impressive detail to check for.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Now you're showing off.”

“ _Yes_ , Clint, I have been the whole time. Why were you so slow to pick up on it?”

“Um. I didn't expect to be hit on during a mission?”

He thought to check her side for the injury - it'd been a couple weeks, but she hadn't flinched when he'd run his hands down her ribs. She snorted when he lifted her t-shirt up on that side.

“I heal fast,” she said as he examined the long clean slice, well closed-over but with a line of tape covering the length of it.

“Or it was much less of an injury than I thought,” he said, screwing his mouth to one side.

She caught his face in her hands and looked at him seriously. “I heal fast. It notched several ribs. It wasn't a minor injury.”

He rested his fingers on top of the tape, watching her face, and pressed lightly. She caught her breath and shifted in his lap, her eyes darkening as the pupils dilated further.

“And you have a dubious relationship with pain,” he said quietly.

Her mouth curved a bit. “Our kind of training rather encourages it. You're telling me you don't?”

“I would say it's heavily dependent on context.”

She gave him a slow smile, and then her teeth caught her bottom lip as he stroked over the wound, actually able to feel the faint indentations in the ribs under his fingertips.

“Your name isn't Belle,” he said, feeling his cock twitch at her exhale, slow and at the edge of moan.

“Macha,” she said, low and breathy.

He tilted his head.  “The same sound as ‘loch.’”

She nodded. “One of three Celtic warrior goddesses.” She gave him a wicked grin. “Easier to moan than either Morrigan or Nemain.”

He reached up to cup the back of her neck, tugging her head down so he could touch his mouth to her ear. “Macha,” he breathed.

Her fingers clenched on his shoulders and he felt her stomach muscles jump as the same time.

“Bloody hell, Clint, please tell me we can go have sex now.”

He sighed, rubbed his nose in mild embarrassment. “I'm not off Fury’s leash yet.”

She dropped her head to rest against the top of his shoulder and said something probably obscene in a language he didn't know.

He was opening his mouth for what was likely to be something apologetic when she shifted to kiss him, demanding and hungry, hips moving in a grind against his crotch. When she lifted away just far enough to breathe, he pulled her back into the kiss. His hands slid up under her t-shirt, his thumbs rubbed over her nipples, and she arched into him, head falling back as she sucked in a deep breath.

“Here then, Clint, please. I don't want you to stop touching me right now.” She slid like a python across his cock, now uncomfortably hard in his jeans. “I want your hand. I'll return the favor. Okay?”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Macha.”

“Do you want me to beg?” she whispered in his ear as she writhed in his lap.

His mind went blank for a moment, then one hand was tangling in her hair, holding her near the nape of her neck and pulling her head back. His other hand tugged at the front waistband of her yoga pants, pausing at the contact with skin. She made a desperate noise through clenched teeth, moving her hands from his shoulders to the back of the booth behind him. He heard her fingernails scrape against the fake leather as she clawed for a grip.

He leaned in and kissed the hollow of her throat as he arched her neck, touching the skittering beat of her pulse with the tip of his tongue. “I think you already are,” he murmured against her skin as his fingertips slid down below the stretchy fabric of her pants, stroking though soft short waves of hair and finding a warm slickness, her moan vibrating her throat against his mouth as his fingers parted the soft flesh, coming to rest with his fingers just grazing her entrance.

“Why?” he asked, loosening his grip on her hair but refusing to move his other hand further.

She sucked in a breath and focused on him, her eyebrows drawing. “Why do I want you?” she asked, almost bewildered.

“Macha,” he said, scolding, his fingers twitching once across her sensitive flesh.

“Oh god, Clint, you're such a bastard.”

“Macha,” he said, low and warning.

She closed her eyes and pulled her hands back to the nape of her neck, clasping her fingers together and tucking her thumbs under his hand there. He took hold of them securely and she relaxed slightly, hips still moving in little circles against his crotch.

“Call it a competency kink, maybe,” she said softly. Her eyes opened to stare at him, dark and drowning. “You're skilled, you're deadly, you're _bloody_ hot, and the first time I laid eyes on you, I wanted you inside me. And then I saw you with a bow in your hands…” Her eyes closed again and she chewed her lip, pressing down against him, seeking more pressure against his fingers. He slid them against her, pressing his palm against her clitoris.

She gasped brokenly, surging in his lap, spreading her thighs even wider in a non-verbal plea.

He was nearly dizzy with wanting her, and he didn't think he could keep up any further questioning. He slid his middle two fingers into her, slipping easily into the searing heat of her, feeling her pulse.  He brushed his thumb back and forth against her clitoris and she shifted to lay against him, her mouth open and wet on the side of his neck as she stifled her noises against his skin.

She shuddered against him, surprising him with her orgasm, feeling her clench rhythmically around his fingers. She kept her hands at the back of her neck, not tugging against his grip on her thumbs, though he could feel the a slight sideways shift of her body whenever the stretch pulled at the wound on her side.

He stilled his hand against her, his fingers in her, without withdrawing them. She panted, little rough sounds catching in her throat.

“Clint,” she whispered hoarsely. “More. Not done.”

He felt the roll of lust surge through him and he worked his thumb against her. She cried out, her hips stuttering, and made pleading noises into his skin as she rode his hand into another orgasm. He tightened his hold on her with his other hand, keeping her locked against him, her shoulders working convulsively but not struggling.

He let her relax again, his hand still, feeling the trembling deep inside her around his fingers. The intimacy of this, the surrender, shook him and left him leaking in his jeans. Of course she had soaked through her thin yoga pants as well and he didn't know which of them was more responsible for the wet fabric he felt against his cock.

Her breathing evened and he guided her hands down, gathering her thumbs again when her hands were settled at the small of her back. She inhaled shakily, let slip a little cough of a laugh. He nodded, knowing she'd feel it. He waited until she took a deep breath, opening her mouth to say something, and he stroked his thumb lightly against her, three fingers moving in her now, and she gasped, writhing helplessly.

He teased another climax out of her, lingering a little this time, slowing down intermittently as she tensed, kissing the pleading off her lips.

When she was finally just moaning his name over and over, he sped up his motions. “Now,” he murmured against her mouth, inhaling her soft cries. She came again, shaking, incoherent.

He slid his hand away gently, caressingly, bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick clean.

She whispered something multi-syllabic almost silently and nuzzled against him. He grinned and let go of her thumbs, stroking both hands down her back soothingly.

She took three deep breaths, then pushed herself upright, gazing down at him heavy-lidded, her lips swollen, satiation emanating from her. She slid her hands down between them, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, gently and deftly easing his cock out.

He inhaled sharply, suddenly aware how close he was just from the feel of her hands on him. She rested her forehead on the crest of his shoulder, looking down at her hands around him, and started to stroke down his shaft with one hand, the other cradling under his balls. They were already tight to his body, and after a gentle rolling caress, she shifted position to cover the head of his cock with her palm, her thumb rubbing against the sensitive spot underneath as her palm lightly polished across the wet tip.

He groaned at her touch.  “Not going to take much,” he said tightly.

She nodded, not lifting her head from where she was watching her hands work him over. When the friction around his shaft built up, she slipped her hand into her pants and pulled it out slick with her own fluids to wrap around him again. His breath caught and his hips twitched, trying to thrust. She slipped her hand into her pants once more for lubrication, then lifted her head to look at him, grip moving faster and faster.

“I…we need…” he said.

The corners of her mouth tucked up and curled into the wickedest smile he'd ever seen, and she leaned in to him, pulling her t-shirt away from her body and aiming his cock at her bare abdomen and chest as she tugged harder at him.

His eyes widened in shock and then he was coming, painting her in streaks under her shirt as she worked her hand over him. She let the shirt fall back against her body to stick and slide, and raised her hand to lick off the dribbles.

He blinked at her, stunned, as she gently nestled his softening cock back into his jeans and zipped him up.

“Did I break you?” she asked, with a pleased smile.

“I…maybe,” he said.

She leaned to kiss him, hands on his shoulders, mouth moving lazily, little sighs escaping her. “Clint,” she murmured into his mouth. “Can we…”

“Hell, yes.”

“But not tonight.” She searched his face, then nodded. “I'll be in town for a few more days. Let me know if you're allowed out again.”

“Macha…”

“Clint.” She smiled at him, slid lingeringly off his lap and out of the booth, then sauntered out of the bar, damp t-shirt clinging to her, most of the male eyes in the place following her.

Clint waited a while before leaving, figuring he'd give everyone a chance to get distracted so he wasn't lynched out of jealousy when he walked past.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Mediation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury escalated, now Macha is forced to try a different sort of negotiation for Clint

 

Clint rolled out of bed the next morning to answer a knock on his door. Natasha was waiting there, holding out an empty hand. He looked at it, sleepy and confused.

“You are so grounded, Clint. Fury wants your phone confiscated and you're restricted to base.”

He blinked. “What…”

“Do you actually _know_ who you were rutting with in the bar last night?”

“Yes!” He frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “Wait, were you there?”

She shoved him backwards into his room and slammed the door shut. “You can't possibly think Fury’s just going to look the other way while you get all tangled up in sexytimes with a Circle assassin!”

Clint looked away. “I was…scouting…” he said weakly.

“Oh god, just stop,” Natasha said, holding her forehead like he was giving her a migraine.

“Nat, I'm not involved in anything that the Circle should be interested in. I honestly think, I hope, she wants _me_.”

“Clint.” She was giving him the look she generally reserved for when he said something particularly stupid. “As much as I'd like to allow you your ego-stroking…”

He held up a hand to stop her as he dropped back to sit on the edge of his bed, slumped. “Please, no bad jokes. I…know you're probably right. Just…she's…”

“Oh, Clint.” Natasha sat next to him, slung an arm around his waist, and leaned in for a sideways hug. “I'm really sorry. And the Circle - they're not really the bad guys. Fury just doesn't trust them.”

He sighed. “We could be making them our allies. We kind of need all hands on this one.”

Nat kissed his cheek and stood, grabbing his phone and heading for the door. “Not our call to make.”

 

<——€€€

 

Clint spent a lot of time on the ranges and in the gym over the next few weeks. As far as working off his frustrations, it helped, but he couldn't help a growing irritation. He wasn't a child; for Fury to ground him like one felt petty.

Bruce kept giving him sympathetic looks, so he took to avoiding him. Natasha and Steve had left on a mission a few days after he was grounded. Tony was surprisingly good company, especially if Clint showed up with good bourbon, but he was deeply involved in some tricky improvement to his current suit and didn't have that many mental cycles to spare.

Out of boredom, and still restricted to the base, he took to sitting on rooftops to watch the patterns of daily work.

He noted the areas where people took discreet breaks, sometimes in pairs, he watched shift changes, he watched daily deliveries, he watched practice sessions, he saw arguments and romantic liaisons and a little smuggling of goods.

He knew before the general population of the base when one of the food contracts was changed. The new company, a seafood distributor, had a nicely painted and minimalist design on their trucks, almost Zen in the clean lines and simple colors. Certainly the quality of dinners improved; not that Clint had had any complaints before, but he absolutely preferred fresh over frozen, and the fish served now was clearly sushi-grade. Of course, fresh seafood meant nearly daily deliveries, so Clint became quite familiar with the delivery people - one older Asian man, very dignified; a huge guy that looked possibly Samoan and had more muscles than seemed likely or reasonable for a normal human body; and a slender delicate-looking young man, almost a boy, clearly related to the older Asian man and possibly serving some sort of apprenticeship.

It was just about a show every time they showed up. The older man would emerge from the passenger side of the van and start barking orders. The boy would tumble out of the back doors of the delivery van to extend the ramp, scramble back up and start wrestling the big rolling bins toward the ramp, panting with the exertion and swearing under his breath. The big guy would saunter out of the driver's side and around to the back, generally arriving in perfect time to catch the first bin as it rolled out of control of the kid and down the ramp. The older man would shout, the big guy would ignore him and push the bin off towards the kitchen, whistling, and the kid would bow repeatedly and turn to wrestle the next rolling bin to the top of the ramp.

Occasionally, a bin would escape the control of the kid when the big guy wasn't there to catch it and the kid would have to chase it down, gasping for breath, while the older man shouted after him, clutching his hair in despair.

After the bins had been emptied in the kitchen and wheeled back to line up behind the van, the big guy would slouch back into the driver's seat and leave the kid to wrestle the empties up the ramp and into the back of the van, harangued the whole time by the older man, until the kid was heaving for breath on the last bin. Then the older gent would get back into the passenger’s seat, the kid would push the last bin wearily up the ramp, shove the ramp back in place, clamber into the van, and pull the doors shut.

Honestly, sometimes Clint wanted popcorn while the thing played out. In his Fury-imposed boredom, it was the most entertaining show he had access to in his day. He ended up settling in a unofficial smoking area near the kitchen so he could watch from close up.

The big Samoan-looking guy glanced at Clint once disinterestedly as he pushed a bin past, giving him a desultory nod, clearly more focused on the kitchen door being propped open. He never gave Clint another look as he ambled back and forth.

The kid looked wrecked and exhausted today, emerging from the back of the van wearing a surgical mask and nitrile gloves, pausing frequently to catch his breath. The older man berated him for his weakness in daring to catch a cold and ordered him to step up his efforts.

Clint felt sorry for the kid today, though he didn't interfere until he was struggling with the last empty and the kitchen manager came out, pushing a full bin that had apparently been mis-delivered. The big guy and the older man had already gotten back in the van and the kid just bowed a weary apology to the kitchen manager and waited until she was gone to start trying to push the heavy bin up the ramp himself, nearly horizontal with the effort and sucking air through the mask like he was dying.

Clint shook his head and stepped up to put his shoulder into the bin. The kid gave him a startled but grateful look and, together, they got the surprisingly heavy bin rolled up the ramp. The boy dropped like a dead thing at the top of the ramp and gestured limply to an empty space inside so Clint rolled the bin over and secured it where it seemed obvious.

Then the van doors were closing and Clint felt an uncomfortable pressure at his neck and heard a gentle male voice say, “Your assistance is greatly appreciated, agent Barton.”

 _Fuck_ , Clint thought as he slid into darkness, _Nat and Fury are going to tear me a new one_.

 

<——€€€

 

He kept his eyes closed and body relaxed as he tried to sort out his surroundings and his condition without giving away that he was awake.

He was in an airplane, on a bed or some similar surface. At least two men were arguing in an unfamiliar language. He wasn't obviously restrained and nothing hurt.

A hand settled familiarly against his cheek. “I know you're awake, Clint.”

He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, trying not to look at the gorgeous and insane assassin leaning on an elbow next to him. “Are you trying to get me murdered by my own team, Macha?”

She grinned at him, well-pleased with herself. “Hard for them to do when I've successfully kidnapped you.”

He was torn between feeling flabbergasted and flattered and was only mildly ashamed to find that the flattery was winning.

“I have to ask: was the Circle in on this scheme or do you have enough resources on your own to set up a entire food delivery service and arrange a vetted contract with a SHIELD base just to kidnap me?”

She laughed delightedly and leaned over him to kiss him. “You're handling this better than the others expected.”

He let the kiss linger, responding to her mouth on his, but not reaching up to hold her. When she moved away, he looked past her at the several men who were visible through the door of the tiny bedroom, watching from the other end of the plane with their arms crossed.

“I take it our audience there is not pleased?”

She glanced over her shoulder and smirked, gesturing at them. One of them walked forward to lean in the doorway and Clint recognized the older Asian man from the delivery crew.

“On the contrary, agent Barton,” he said, and Clint heard the same voice that had spoken so gently in the van as he passed out. “We find our mistress’s actions to be rather romantic, in fact, if in a way that perhaps few outsiders would understand.”

Macha stroked Clint’s shoulder and arm with a grin. “Ito was so charmed, he insisted on running the operation himself.”

“As my mistress’s second in command, it is my responsibility and privilege to see to her well-being in every possible way.”

Clint wrinkled his nose. “Sorry, but that sounds a bit creepy, like you're her procurer.”

Ito pulled an exaggeratedly long face, reminding Clint of some Kabuki theatre he'd seen once. “One does as one must in the service of such as she.”

Macha snorted inelegantly. “Ito.”

“O most deadly of mistresses?”

“Behave.”

“As one who is as the sun of our very existence, the veritable moon of our regard, commands.”

She closed her eyes. “Aki.”

The big Samoan sauntered into the room, looking immense in the tiny space, and shoved Ito aside slightly with a smirk. “Macha-sama?”

“Take Ito away and do something vile to him, please.”

He grinned hugely, teeth beautifully if alarmingly white against his warm skin, looking more like a Cheshire Cat than a human at the moment.

“Bit limited in options at the moment, at least while we're on board. You know how the other minions hate to clean the plane.”

Clint blinked. “Minions.”

Aki’s glance flicked to him, amusement clear on his face. “Some of the Circle support staff watched those Minion movies and thought it was cute. Drives most of the elder Circle members mad, but those of us who’re attached to herself’s household think all that dignity is overrated.”

“Oi!” Macha protested. Both minions smirked at her and left the tiny bedroom. Clint heard a quiet but fierce discussion start up outside and then the boy from the delivery service came to the door. He grinned wickedly and Clint revised his age upwards several years. “Macha-sama, uncle Ito is trying to pull rank and Aki says you've promoted him, at least temporarily.”

Clint felt his brow furrow and he pushed up enough to rest back on his elbows. “Do you have support staff or are you running a daycare?”

Macha rolled her eyes.  “I'm so glad you can see it.”

The boy, no, the young man, tilted his head with a clearly practiced innocence. “But you accepted our service, mistress. Surely you, O hunter extraordinaire, apex predator among predators, most feared terror in the night…”

She pointed a finger at him and he shut up, bowing to hide his smirk.

“You should be acting as the peacemaker right now,” she said sternly. “The fact that you're not tells me you want something.”

“I beg my mistress's forgiveness for my obviousness.”

“Haru…” she said warningly.

He straightened, bouncing in place and clasping his hands together, and looking very young again. “Oh c'mon, put me in charge, I promise to organize a sing-a-long or a bondage scene or something else hysterical, pretty please?”

Clint snorted. “Where do you _get_ staff like this?”

Macha sagged, hiding her face against his shoulder. “Even the finest circuses have clowns, Clint. And as the newest and most controversial Circle member, I don't tend to attract the more traditional type of staff.”

Haru scoffed, dropping the childish guise. “Don't listen, agent Barton. There isn't a single one of us that didn't have offers from other Circle households.”

Clint looked him over carefully, seeing him clearly for possibly the first time. He had a slender frame but it was wrapped in sleek muscle. He stood erect, relaxed but alert, displaying his physical competence and emanating a clear sense of dangerous predator in his own right. His face was calm, but the light of amusement in his eyes was reflected in the tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. And then it all disappeared under the gleeful mischief of a teenager.

“Never mind, mistress, I've got another idea!” And he _scampered_ out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

“What the…” Clint frowned, mouth open slightly.

Macha kissed his temple. “You should be flattered. Haru almost never shows himself, even amongst us.”

He blinked and turned to look at her. “What do you want _me_ for, when you've got _them_?”

“You think far too little of yourself,” she told him seriously. “They are family, and friends…”

“And more than that,” he interrupted.

She nodded. “And occasionally more than that, although they tend to turn to each other. The Circle has traditionally been male-only, and females have generally been unacceptable in more ways than as colleagues.”

“Jesus Christ, has it been _worth_ it to work through that?”

She gazed at the closed door, as if seeing her men, her chosen tribe, the world beyond it. A look of weary pride paused there, then was wiped away by a fierce and bloodthirsty satisfaction. “Yes. _God_ yes, Clint, how can you even ask?”

He knew how twisted he was considered, to do what he did, to take satisfaction in it, to be as good as he was. How it felt to have a life trembling on the tip of each bullet or arrow. To know what he was for and to be able to do it with a skill that felt as natural as breathing. He was a precise surgical instrument and, once he'd chosen a surgeon to wield him, he was free to be exactly what he was.

She nodded as she watched his face, her predator’s eyes bright, her mouth curved in a feral smile. “That. Right there.” She slid over him to straddle his hips, fingers working frantically at his belt. “Who else would understand, would _know_ , how it felt. Every time. Who else's hands would I want on me?”

He wrapped his hands in her hair and pulled her down to meet his mouth, kissing her roughly until she moaned into his mouth. Then he wrapped one leg around her and rolled them over until she was pinned below him. She spread her thighs and pressed up, and Clint wished they weren't both wearing clothes.

Macha laughed suddenly and grinned at him. “I bet we're both wishing the same thing.”

His eyes crinkled as he grinned back. “How fast can you strip?”

“Faster than you.” She nipped his shoulder. “Get off me, you over-muscled rough, and I'll show you.”

 “ _Over_ -muscled?”

She curved her hands around his shoulders, slid them lingeringly down his upper arms, fingers stroking along the curves and indents where muscle rose and then tucked away against bone, tracing and caressing.

“Mmm. Maybe not _over_ as such,” she said thoughtfully, one hand slipping under his arm to stroke along his spine, and the other sliding down to knead his backside.

“Damn straight,” he growled into her ear.

Her breath caught and she shoved at him. “Get off, we need to be naked.”

He rolled away and onto his feet, laughing. “So I guess we'll do the lingering undressing each other another time?”

“Holy _fuck_ , Clint, will you fucking strip already so I can have you inside me this century?”

He wrenched at his clothes as his cock flexed and leaked. “If you don't shut the hell up, I won't make it anywhere _near_ you in time.”

They finished at nearly the same instant, and he pushed her backwards onto the bed, shoving her legs apart and kneeling between them. He held her down with one hand flat on her stomach, and slid the other down to test how wet she was. She groaned and writhed against the bed, holding onto his wrist with both hands and tugging.

“Clint, come on, _now_ , I need you.”

“You have me,” he said, just a little cruelly, sliding his fingers in her and flexing them. She arched her hips off the bed with a groan.

“God, no, yes, not, Clint, _please_ …”

He grinned savagely. “That.” He slid over her, settling his hips in place. “Exactly that.”

“ _Please._ ”

He rewarded her, both of them, by sinking into her, pressing her into the bed, rolling his hips until he was lodged as deeply into her as it was possible to be. She hid her face against his throat and exhaled a long shuddering breath. “That,” she whispered almost inaudibly. “Exactly that.”

He shivered and braced himself and put his mouth to her ear. “Tell me what you need,” he murmured.

“Just…just this…for a moment.” She held him still, and he felt her heartbeat flutter where his mouth was touching beneath her ear and pulse around his cock where he slid back and forth ever so slightly with their breathing.

They balanced precariously there, sharing air, both supremely aware of their intimate interlock, flesh slickly welcoming flesh, shivering into each other, breaths synchronizing.

He held himself fiercely still as she quivered against him, felt her draw in a deep breath, felt her mouth move against his throat, and then, _then_ , he drew his hips back and thrust into her, her protesting sound turned into a keening whine as she wrapped her arms around him, seeking an anchor as he rocked into her.

Her hands held his shoulders and her heels tucked against his backside and she nestled her mouth against his ear. “ _Please_ ,” she whispered in a raw, scraped voice as if she'd been screaming for hours, and he lost time and himself, moving in a fluid and eternal motion with her, losing the edges of where he ended and she started, coming undone and not knowing whether there was any useful boundary anywhere at all.

When he was able to focus again, when words existed and made sense, he blinked at the bite marks on her shoulder just beyond where he lay with his face against her.

He cleared his throat carefully, mildly alarmed to find that he'd collapsed on top of her, was probably crushing her. He made to move, and she made a little sound in her throat, one hand on his hip clenching in a spasm to hold him there.

He was still inside her, he found, softening, but their position had kept him there.

“If you drugged me,” he said hoarsely, “I want more of it, please.”

She laughed roughly, which triggered a cough, then another, then several, and they slid apart while she tried to catch her breath.

She panted, glared weakly at him. “And I was just about to accuse you of witchcraft. What the bloody hell do you do to me?”

He reached out and traced light fingertips over the marks he'd left on her, and she hissed in a breath as her nipples hardened again.

She smacked his hand away, reasonably gently. “You're still too cross-eyed for anything else.”

He chuckled lazily and pulled her against him, settling them both on their sides, her back to his front. He tucked an arm over her and nosed at her shoulder. “Sorry, perfection, it's going to be a while before I'm good for anything.”

She breathed for a moment, still, and he watched her profile, trying to read whatever thoughts she was sorting. Then she smiled and turned her head a little to catch his eye. “I'm not letting you go, you know.”

He huffed in exasperated amusement. “Can we talk about this when I'm not cross-eyed from Macha sex?”

She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the fingertips. “Go to sleep, Clint.”

 

<——€€€

 

When he woke, she was sitting cross-legged against the wall of the plane and his head was nestled on her thigh, face tucked against her bare stomach. He brushed her skin in a light kiss and she stroked her hand through his hair.

When he turned his head to look up at her, she was regarding him with rueful amusement, holding a cell phone with the other hand. At his frown, she handed him her phone. “Bruce,” she said.

 

You are crazier than a

loon, you know that?

Is that your way of

telling me that your

director is pissed?

Fury is incandescent, yes

But Natasha is sharpening

her knives and checking

flights. You are in trouble

Bah. Remind her that

I warned her what

would happen when

she took his phone

and intercepted my

text messages to him.

Rude much?

I feel like I'm banging

my head on a brick

wall here. Are you even

listening to me? SHIELD

is about to declare war

on the Circle because

you couldn't keep your

pants on

 

“Well, he's not _wrong_ , you know,” Clint snickered. “I didn't know you were still in touch with him. We could probably have saved some of this trouble.”

She smiled wickedly. “But we'd have missed most of the fun, and we wouldn't have gotten to have sex as quickly.”

Clint sighed. “I can't actually argue with that and it makes me feel like there might be something wrong with me.”

“Oh ugh, are you suggesting we should go the responsible adult route now?”

He gave her a wry look.

 

::sigh::

Do me a favor

if you would

Do I owe you any still?

Bruce, love, are

you still sane?

Look, I know I owe you

my sanity. I'll never be

able to repay

STOP

 

STOP RIGHT THERE

Bruce, dear heart

that's not what I meant!

Oh

 

Then what?

I need you to go see Fury

and pass a message to him

because he's not answering

any of the normal channels.

Um. You're right…

I'd need to be insane

to pop in right now

 

And Natasha's with him

right now too. I really really

really don't want to…

All the hugs dear heart

I'm sorry to put you on

the spot like this. I didn't

anticipate Fury being

quite so unreasonable

Oh sure because what's

a little kidnapping among

rival agencies after all?

: (

Macha…

 

So you feel pretty

strongly about him

If you want to put

it so lightly, sure

And how are the

minions taking it?

Haru was himself briefly

Holy fuck

Well, I guess that's settled

IKR?

 

Clint snorted then frowned over that exchange. “How long was Bruce with the Circle? And was it just with your household?”

“He spent time in different places, but he was with the Circle for several years. I've known him for most of that time.”

He eyed her thoughtfully. “Not your story to tell?”

She smiled down at him, stroking her thumb across his mouth. “Will you stop being so perfect so I can concentrate on settling your incandescent director down to a normal simmer?”

 

Okay, what's the message

 

Macha?

 

Macha.

Tell Fury that the Circle

has information about

the rotten core at the

heart of the serpent

 

And we offer a trade in

exchange for establishing

a pair of liaisons between

SHIELD and the Circle

Rotten core at the heart

of the serpent? Mixed

metaphors but I guess

it'll mean something

to him? Should he be

alone when I pass this

message along?

 

Clint pushed himself up to sit next to her, staring at the screen. “Hydra? You know something about Hydra?”

“We know a great deal about Hydra. And we've been quietly taking them out as we can. And while we don't operate in the United States…”

Clint scoffed. “Why, professional courtesy or something?”

Macha gave him an even look. “That's precisely the reason. SHIELD negotiated with us long ago to keep us out of their territory.”

“So you kidnapping me really was kind of a declaration of war.”

Her mouth curled and she leaned over to kiss him. “And well worth it, too. But Fury is really to blame by escalating it. All I wanted was to reach an agreement about your time off. I had no intention of interfering to this extent, but Fury shut down negotiations. Not something the Circle could ignore, much less me.”

Clint looked away. “I doubt I'm worth…”

“Stop.” She kissed him again. “Do you trust your little Russian skank?”

“Skank? I'm so going to tell her you said that. And yes. I trust her completely.”

 

The little Russki skank is

apparently trustworthy.

But no one else

Oh my god

 

Please please let me tell

her you called her that

Bruce. Focus.

It's so DIFFICULT

around you

Flattery etc etc

And let me guess -

Barton’s the SHIELD

liaison to the Circle

and you're the Circle

liaison to SHIELD

Not that it was

obvious or anything

 

Get going, Bruce,

before we have to nuke

SHIELD from orbit

On my way

 

Macha leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

“So the whole Circle _was_ in on this.” Clint took her hand and lightly stroked her palm.

She smiled without opening her eyes. “You can open the door,” she said conversationally.

The bedroom door opened and Ito stepped in to kneel beside the bed gracefully. Clint blushed furiously and Ito nodded.

“Yes, agent Barton, it is exactly as you fear. We did hear everything but I must tell you that, in our collective opinion, you should be embarrassed by nothing.” There were approving noises from outside the room and one wolf whistle.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly.

“And as for the Circle as a whole being involved, well, perhaps it would be better explained as the Circle having a tendency to exploit opportunities as they occur. Our mistress's preoccupation with you gave the Circle the opportunity to apply leverage against SHIELD’s growing intransigence, in the person of your Director.”

“Not to be rude, but god, you're a wordy bastard,” Clint noted.

Ito chuckled. “Fury suspects hidden Hydra agents. His paranoia pissed off the Circle, which has the same aim and wants to help. Also, he grounded Macha-sama’s boyfriend. Is that better?” Clint glared.

 

Um. Fury and Nat

want assurance that

Barton's OK.

Understandable.

Hold on a sec and I'll

hand him the phone

They want to call

Nope. Calls can be traced.

Messaging is safer right now

Um. Ok, I'm going t

 

Clint? It's Nat

bikini bottom babes

with bells on their boots

 

Macha snorted. “What the actual fuck, Clint.”

“Is it a code you could guess or fake?”

She laughed hard, holding on to his shoulder. “Okay, okay, I will absolutely give you that. But oh god, any code we come up with has to be even worse, promise?”

 

Fury is standing here

PISSED and I'm not

much better. I'm trusting

that you're not under

duress. Tell me that

you're all right.

I'm fine. I'm better than

fine, but I'm not planning

on sharing details right now.

Fury wants to

 

Fury here. I don't

appreciate being

forced into situations. 

This is Macha, Director.

The Circle doesn't appreciate

the lack of communication,

both before this situation and

after. We have had a long

negotiated agreement with

SHIELD and your recent

actions, while somewhat

understandable in light of

your difficulties, are nevertheless

the direct cause of this ‘situation.’

 

“Don't pull your punches, darling,” Clint murmured.

Macha laughed. “This is just diplomacy, pet. I haven't even begun to punch yet.”

 

We have sought to create

a liaison position with you

for several years. Your

refusal has forced our

hand and we have now

moved to create two

reciprocal positions.

 

This is not debatable.

 

You face a debilitating

internal threat and an

extinction-level external

threat, both of which

threaten far more than

just SHIELD. The Circle

can and will assist with both.

 

“Are you punching yet?”

“Nope, but I've progressed to prodding with a stick.”

 

Um. This is Bruce.

They want to know

how long you plan

to keep Barton.

 

Macha raised an eyebrow at him. “I was thinking two or three weeks? And then we go back to SHIELD and get to work?”

Clint laughed helplessly. “You kidnapped me! How is this my decision?”

 

Three weeks at most.

Then we'll both be back. 

Okay I'm out of Fury's

office and I guess that's

fine since I still have a

face and all but Natasha

says to tell you

 

Um. I'm not typing

what she said.

 

No, not that either.

 

Ok, Natasha has gone

off to murder something

apparently. You're headed

home? I'm kind of jealous.

All the hugs, dear heart <3

I can't tell you how grateful

I am for you, and how proud

I am of how far you've come.

 

Stop blushing and

go bother your

genius boyfriend.

He's not my boyfriend!

 

Macha turned off the phone and raised an eyebrow at Ito, who grinned and rose gracefully to his feet.

“Yes, mistress, I'll just go and set Haru to organizing his sing-a-long, shall I?” He bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door.

Clint cast a dark gaze at the door and Macha chuckled. “It's true that it doesn't provide much soundproofing, but at least they won't be watching and offering advice.”

“Would they?” Clint demanded, horrified.

“That is _entirely_ the wrong question, Clint.”

Clint blanched as he thought that over. “Oh god. It's ‘when will they,’ isn't it?”

She pulled him over to lay flat on the bed beside her. “I know you escaped one circus, love, but I'm afraid you've fallen in with another. I promise this one is better.”

He sighed. “At least I'm sleeping with the ringmaster this time.”

 

 

 


End file.
